


The Aleph

by tmelange



Category: DCU - Comicverse, Smallville
Genre: Amnesia, Bruce in Smallville, De-aging, First Time Meeting, First Time Sex/Romance, M/M, Plot-Intensive, Young Clark or Bruce
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmelange/pseuds/tmelange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark Kent of Smallville rescues a nine-year-old child named Bruce who suffers from amnesia. Turns out, things are nothing like what they seem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title compliments of [Jorge Luis Borges](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Aleph_%28short_story%29).
> 
> I started this story in 2008. It's not finished, but I do intend to finish it one day.

I.

Clark Kent wandered the robotics production floor of WayneTech's main facility on the outskirts of Gotham City, as amazed as his classmates at the technological marvels that were on display. Remote controlled military vehicles, battle armor, mechanical surgeons that could complete spinal surgery without any instruction from a human being. It was almost like visiting a museum, a very cool, very futuristic museum—like a scene out of a Bradbury book. Clark still couldn't believe his science class had been the one chosen to receive this special invitation and all-expenses-paid trip. Who would have thought that anyone in Gotham City knew anything at all about Smallville?

A student reporter from the _Torch_ snapped a photo of the class making its way through the facility as the company guide explained each work area and some of the science behind the displays. Clark was sure the photos would be used for the yearbook; certainly this trip would be one of the highlights of senior year.

His teacher called for everyone's attention. "We're going into the theater to view a movie and to hear comments from one of WayneTech's head scientists," she said. "Afterwards, we've been invited to lunch in the executive cafeteria. I want you all to be respectful and quiet during the presentation. On your best behavior—every one of you. I won't tolerate any funny business. Now stay together and follow me."

Clark lagged behind the group as they filed into the auditorium and took their seats. He was a head taller than most of his classmates, and it was second nature for him to gravitate towards the back where his height would be less likely to bother anyone. The lights went out and the presentation started. Clark found the movie about nanotechnology riveting and was only distracted once when a man entered the theater through a door in the rear and approached his teacher. She spoke to the man, pointed in Clark's direction and then nodded. It would have been hard for anyone but Clark to see the man's features in the dim light, but Clark had his abilities, and he could see in the dark quite well. The man was tall; he had straight black hair and blue eyes that gazed in his direction like pinpoints of light, making Clark uncomfortable. Clark turned away, glanced at the screen momentarily to determine what he'd missed. When he again looked for the strange man, combing the shadows at the back of the theater with his eyes, Clark found that he was gone. Ms. Hendrickson was standing by the doors alone.

The man appeared again at lunch, and this time, he made straight for Clark.

Clark was sitting by himself at a small table by a window that looked out over Gotham City—not by choice, but his usual crew had begged off such a ridiculously hard senior year elective, leaving Clark to navigate the class and the trip by himself. Someone would join him sooner or later—one or two of the stragglers, like himself—after the ordinary formations of nerds and geeks collated and settled. He was content to have found a comfortable spot to wait. The executive cafeteria was on the forty-second floor, and the view was quite a marvelous treat for someone who had rarely been in any building over five stories tall. He really didn't need company.

"Is this seat taken?"

Clark startled out of his reverie to find the man standing there—the one from the theater, holding a tray containing coffee and a salad. He tilted his head towards an empty seat.

"No. I mean, you can sit if you like." Clark hurried to introduce himself. Obviously the man was one of WayneTech's executives, and this was _their_ cafeteria that his class had co-opted. "I'm Clark," he said. "Clark Kent."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Clark," the man said, extending a hand. "I'm Bruce Wayne."

"Bruce _Wayne?"_ Clark repeated in awe. "Wow, it's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

"You can call me Bruce," the man said, eyes crinkling with some interior amusement. "I don't think we need to stand on formality."

"Okay, sure," Clark agreed. "Uh, Bruce—this is a really great company you have here. Thanks so much for inviting us."

Bruce waved a hand. "It was my pleasure. We often invite high school science classes out to tour the facility. It's one of the ways we try to encourage young people to take up science when they get to college, to grow the next generation of employees. WayneTech would flounder if not for the genius of our scientists."

"That's smart," Clark agreed. "I've never seen anything this impressive."

"I'm glad our master plan is working then," Bruce said, smiling a little and sipping from his coffee cup.

"If I didn't want to be a science major before, I do now."

"Don't tell me—astrophysics. The science of the stars and planets."

Clark ducked his head, blushed. Out of all the fabulous things he could do, why couldn't he control the heat rushing to his face? "How did you know?"

"Lucky guess," Bruce said, sitting back in his chair and crossing his legs.

Eating was out of the question, not with Bruce Wayne watching him so intently, like he was a variant species of bug. The appraisal should have made Clark uncomfortable, but all it did was make him self-conscious. He really hoped he wouldn't do anything to embarrass himself.

Now the man had gone quiet, and Clark was at a loss. What did a high school student have to say to a gazillionaire? He looked around the cafeteria, found his teacher who was beaming at him from across the room as if he'd just won the lottery, and realized that he'd get no help from that quarter. He jumped when he felt a light touch to his hand.

"I'm not making you uncomfortable?"

"Uh, no," Clark said quickly.

"Good. I wanted to talk to at least one student, determine whether these trips were actually worthwhile—"

"Oh, definitely," Clark said, nodding. "I wouldn't have missed this for the world."

"Does our facility compare favorably with LuthorCorp?"

Clark coughed, reached for his water glass.

"I've only ever seen the facility in Smallville," he said slowly, "and that one deals with genetic engineering of food. I think their high tech is based out of Metropolis."

"Smart answer," Bruce said, smiling, and Clark got the distinct feeling he was being tested, for what reason, he wasn't sure. Bruce Wayne did remind him of Lex somewhat, in his confident bearing at least, and this discussion had the same feel as one of Lex's subtle games. But that was where the similarity between the two men seemed to end. Bruce was taller than Lex, with a bigger build properly restrained in an expensive black suit. He had to be older than Lex, by one or two years. Twenty-four…twenty-five, maybe? Hair even blacker than Clark's own, and cool blue eyes, sharp as diamonds but not completely cold, not without feeling. _His tie matches his eyes,_ Clark thought, and it was a ludicrous thought, one to almost make him laugh out loud.

Clark picked up his fork, moved the food around on his plate. He really was hungry, and he was sure his teacher was about to call assembly at any minute. "Uh, is there something you wanted to know…about Smallville?"

"Actually, I know all about Smallville."

"You do?" Clark said, fork to mouth. What were the odds of that?

"I do," Bruce said, nodding. "I spent quite some time there recently."

"Recently? Like when?" Clark was sure if Bruce Wayne had been in town at any time, he would have heard about it. Smallville wasn't called _Smallville_ for nothing.

"A few months back," Bruce said, conversationally, as he picked at his salad, eyes glinting at him like there was some private joke hanging in the atmosphere, somewhere over Clark's head. "And for quite some time. It's a great town. I felt…safe there. I'll never forget my visit."

Clark's mind was considering and discarding possibilities. He didn't want to call the man a liar, but he couldn't have been in Smallville, not without Clark at least _hearing_ about it. Maybe Bruce was thinking of some _other_ small Midwest town. One was often indistinguishable from another. Maybe the man was simply confused.

"Where were you staying?" Clark asked, sure he could straighten out the mystery with a little more information.

"The Kent farm," Bruce said, grinning wide.

Clark dropped his glass of water. The contents spilled all over the white tablecloth, soaking everything. _"Oh, my God—Bruce?"_ he breathed, recognizing the black hair and the blue eyes, and how those features fit in this new face that was so oddly reminiscent of a rounder, younger face. _"Bruce!_ What the—"

"I told you it would all work out, Clark," Bruce said, eyebrows raised as he mopped up spilled water with a napkin. "I always get what I want."

"But—"

"I meant every word I ever said to you. _Every word._ I won't rest until I make it all come true."

 _"But I—"_

"Don't know me. Don't love me." Bruce shrugged, a small grin teasing the corners of his mouth. "Don't worry, Clark." He reached out, patted Clark's hand. "You will."


	2. Chapter 2

II.

Batman checked the chronometer on the dashboard of the Batmobile as he pulled into the cave. He still had time, but not much. There had been a prison break attempt at Arkham, and he had suited up to lend a hand, but Bruce Wayne was the keynote speaker at the annual fundraiser for the Children's Cancer Society, and it would be the height of bad form for him to blow off the engagement—even to support his ever-growing reputation as a wastrel. There were certain things he would do to protect his secret identity, and certain things he would never do—for any reason. His father would roll over in his grave if he flaked on this particular obligation after agreeing to do it in the first place.

It was an event to benefit children's cancer research, for chrissakes.

Maybe he needed to find a way to beg off these types of engagements entirely, Bruce considered, as he pulled himself out of the car. Alfred took his cape and cowl and immediately had hands at the latches of his gear, divesting him of the suit, quickly and efficiently, as only Alfred could do. He was still feeling his way through to the proper balance between this caped identity he had adopted and the demands and obligations of being a Wayne. He was afraid he'd muck it all up, if he didn't recognize his own limitations. As a Wayne, he was a man of his word. Better to have never promised than to renege without giving proper notice.

He was naked and shivering now, the cold dampness of the underground caverns a constant source of irritation. Maybe he should look into some sort of centralized heating system, at least to take the edge out of the air… Alfred finished his work and nodded, and Bruce jogged to the shower, quickly sluicing his body with hot water to remove hours of accumulated grime and stepping out into the towel that Alfred held open for him.

Fifteen minutes later, he was dressed and jogging to the limousine and the car door that Alfred held ajar, practicing his speech in his head, wishing only that he'd had time to have something to eat before embarking on this trip. He could hardly depend upon the mass-produced fare at a charity dinner to comport with a stomach that had gotten more and more finicky over the months as his charade as The Batman of Gotham City had progressed.

"Your dinner is waiting, sir. Eat quickly. I anticipate our arrival in twenty minutes."

Bruce looked around the compartment, spotted a covered tray and smiled, moving over to inspect what Alfred had cooked up for him.

"Alfred, you're a godsend," he hummed, glad to see one of his favorite dishes, prepared just the way he liked.

"It is my great pleasure to be so, Master Bruce."

The affair went off as expected. Bruce mingled, pretended to drink a little more than was wise and made a speech that was well-received with a rousing round of applause. Everything was fine, and it wasn't until he was making his way off the stage that it all went south.

In retrospect, he should have known something was wrong, but he was wrapped up in the facets of his different façades, being sufficiently airy but not airy enough to embarrass himself, his family name, or the organization that had requested his attendance. When the stagehand approached him, offering to shepherd him back to his seat, he thought nothing of it.

"This way, please, Mr. Wayne."

He followed the man towards the back of the stage area, around a thick red curtain and into a hallway lined with doors. "Taking the long way," he quipped, as they seemed to be moving further away from the audience rather than closer to.

"Just trying to get you back to your seat and avoid the crowd," the man assured him, smiling toothily. "There's a shortcut to the side of the banquet hall right through this door."

The man held the door open for him with a flourish, and Bruce followed his directions, not worried until the door closed behind him with finality and he was the only one standing in a cable car of a room. There was a door in front of him and, of course, the door behind, but Bruce was pretty sure both were locked. He resigned himself to waiting for this to play out, wondering whether it was Bruce Wayne or The Batman that his eventual assailants were after. Whether his cover was blown already, or whether he had to be careful not to do anything as Bruce Wayne to reveal his secret identity as Gotham's Dark Knight.

It was then that the room started to fill with gas.

"Damn it to _hell,"_ he swore as he felt his eyelids drop down, as he struggled to stay on his feet. _The next thing under production would be some sort of signaling device for Alfred,_ he decided as the darkness closed over him—either that or he really needed to consider taking on a partner.

Of course, that was assuming he got out of this situation alive.

When he regained consciousness, it was to a sense of pervasive disorientation, a strange feeling of lightness that extended throughout his entire body. There was activity happening around him. Bruce made sure to listen before opening his eyes.

"It worked. I can't believe it worked." A woman.

"Of course, it worked. Now shut up and get ready. I want you out of here in fifteen minutes." A man. Clearly a low-level member of one of Gotham's crime families, from his accent and speech pattern.

"You don't have to be so mean." The woman again. Sulky. The guy's doxy, then.   
Bruce heard movement, and cracked one eye open, trying to determine their location, the number of people involved in this ill-conceived plan, and how much time and trouble it would take him to get out of it. He could tell they were still in the theater, in a back room—and that was good. Maybe he could get home before Alfred began to worry. Carefully, he moved his hands to test his bonds, and that's when it hit him. Something was wrong. _Very wrong._ He looked down at himself—

"He's awake. Tape his mouth before he screams the joint down."

"Oh, shit—"

"Get him out of that suit and into the right clothes. And hurry up. We have to get out of here."

He was a kid again. Bruce looked at his own limbs as the blonde woman taped his mouth, aghast. Nine, ten years old at the most. _What in the world had they done to him?_ He'd had a whole slew of crazy things happen to him in the year or so since he'd donned cape and cowl, but _this?_ This had to take the cake.

He started to struggle as the woman attempted to change his clothes.

"You had better take it easy, Mr. Wayne." The man had red hair and freckles. _A person with freckles should not be engaged in kidnapping, adult-napping…kidnapping, whatever,_ Bruce thought, trying to kick out at the woman, but his legs had hardly the power they once had.

"Relax and you might just get out of this in one piece. Believe it or not, we don't want to hurt you, and if you calm down, this will all be over before you know it."

Bruce glared, but he settled. What he needed right now was information, anyway.

Soon he was changed into kid's clothing and the woman indicated that she was ready to leave. The man passed her a phone.

"Take this," he said. "You get in the car and drive, and you keep driving straight across country until I call and say it's safe to come back. Do you remember the code word?"

"Of course."

"Good. You won't have any problems. No one is looking for a kid. They'll all be looking for Bruce Wayne, the adult. In three days I'll make the ransom demand, but, Julie, you have the most important part." He took her by the shoulders. "This is a big score; it'll set us up for the rest of our lives, but there's a lot of risk involved. The bosses will come after me, once they realize there's so much money to be made, the police, even The Batman might come sniffing around, this guy is that important in Gotham."

"The Batman?" The woman sounded scared, and Bruce rolled his eyes in frustration.

"Don't worry love," the man said, pulling her in for a hug. "That's why we have this plan. That's why you have to drive and not tell anyone where you're going, not even me. There will be no way to find you except through me, no way to reach him except through you; no way to change the kid back except through us both. It's like Bruce Wayne is dead—only he's not, see?"

The woman nodded.

"Here's the cash," the man continued, passing her an envelope. "Don't use your credit cards for anything. Sleep in the car. Don't try to take him out anywhere except to go to the bathroom at a public rest stop. If he gives you any trouble, give him one of these and let him use the bucket in the trunk. If anyone asks, you're his mother. With any luck, this should all be over in ten days, maybe less."

Bruce watched as the woman tucked her supplies in a bag. She kissed the man deeply, and for an inordinate length of time. Then Bruce was being pulled up and hauled to a door, and pushed into the backseat of a car that was parked in a dark alley outside the theater.

All the while he was working the bonds around his hands, but his captors had used tape, and it wasn't as easy to maneuver in a body that was only a fraction of the size of the one he had possessed when training. With the slow rocking of the car as they got on the road, and the constant frustration, Bruce was ashamed to admit that he…fell asleep, after a while. There seemed to be nothing else he could do—at least, not at the moment.

He woke again with the sun cresting the horizon and with the car parked at the side of the road. Mercifully, the tape had been taken off of his mouth at some point in the night, and he was wickedly thirsty. But his female captor was asleep in the front seat, and Bruce figured he'd never have a better chance to make a move. Carefully, he used his feet to try to open the car door.

The woman woke as the car alarm went off when the back door opened. She was out of the car in an instant, shoving him back inside. Bruce got in a few good kicks to her stomach and chest, but with his limbs so short and scrawny, and still mostly bound, it was a losing battle. Spitting in fury, the woman went to the trunk, and then she was shoving a pill down his throat with some water, making him swallow and gag. That was the last he remembered of his surroundings for quite some time.

Periodically, he would regain sense enough to think of escape, but always the woman, _Julie,_ was there, with another pill, sometimes more than one. At some point, she had untied his hands and feet, and Bruce laid in the backseat, practically insensate, unable to rally his body and mind for a reasonable attempt to flee, resigned to hoping the entire ordeal would soon be over.

It was in this condition that he realized something was dreadfully wrong.

There was wind, terrible, horrible wind, and rain whipping against the car. His captor was screaming out obscenities, and then it seemed like they were flying through the air, on the back of a black jetstream, and when Bruce turned his head to look out the window, he seemed to see his own face in the clouds.

It was the last thing he remembered.

When he woke, it was to whiteness at such a pitch of intensity, he had to squint to make out his surroundings. He started to struggle.

"Hey, take it easy there," came a voice, softly concerned. "You're going to hurt yourself."

He tried to speak. "Where—"

Blue eyes. "In a hospital in Smallville. You were in a car accident." A boy, a teenager. Dark hair.

He struggled to sit up. A hand reached out to help him.

"Are you thirsty? Here, sip this. I'll call the doctor."

He reached out. "Don't—"

"I'll be right outside that door. I won't leave you. I promise."

He fell back on the bed, at a loss, looking around at his unfamiliar surroundings. There was something he should know, something he needed to tell the boy and the doctors when they came, but the thoughts slipped through his fingers like sand. He reached up and tentatively touched the bandage around his head.

The doctor entered the room. He was old, in his fifties, at least. He flashed a light in his eyes and asked again and again whether he was okay. Bruce kept his gaze fixed on the dark haired boy who stood by his bedside with a hand on his arm.

"Do you know your name, son?"

"Br—Bruce."

"That's good. How about your last name?" Nothing. "Your address, hmm? Can you tell me where you live?"

Bruce thought about it and realized he couldn't tell the doctor anything—other than his name. He shook his head.

"That's okay. You've had a nasty bump to the head. Memory loss is to be expected, and it's often temporary. We'll run some tests and have you fixed up in no time. Okay?"

Bruce nodded, and watched as the doctor pulled the blue-eyed boy aside. Their discussion was animated, but Bruce couldn't hear the particulars. It was about him, though, that much he could tell.

Finally, the doctor sighed and left the room, and the boy came back to his bedside. He took a seat in the chair.

"I'm Clark," he said, and Bruce tried out the sound of the name in his head. It seemed to fit the boy well. "Sorry I didn't introduce myself sooner. I was just excited that you had woken up. You've been asleep for…a long time."

"How long?"

"Ten days," Clark said solemnly. "I was worried."

 _"Who are you?"_

"Nobody, I mean, nobody related to you. I pulled you out of the car when the tornado set you down. Do you remember?"

"I—" He didn't remember. _Anything._

"Don't worry," Clark said. "I'm sure it'll come back to you." The boy paused, frowned, continued softly with eyes that blinked and lowered, before meeting his own. "I have…something else to tell you." Hesitancy that knotted Bruce's stomach. "Your mom—she didn't…she didn't make it. Debris broke through the windshield and she—"

Bruce started crying, deep heart-wrenching sobs for a woman he didn't even remember. Then there were arms around him, and a voice whispering in his ear that everything would be alright. Clark held him until he was all cried out, and then sat by his bed until he fell asleep. He was there when he opened his eyes in the morning.

Three days later, Martha and Jonathan Kent checked Bruce out of the hospital, and settled him in Clark's room until they could figure out who he was and where to find his family.


	3. Chapter 3

III.

Clark sat in the passenger's seat of the black Mercedes Benz, completely at a loss. "You mean to tell me that you—that the whole time you were living in my house, that you—"

"Were really an adult? Yes, exactly."

"Why didn't you say anything?" Clark exploded, feeling beyond betrayed. He had rescued a boy from a tornado, let the boy into his life, loved him, missed him for months—and now this strange… _guy_ …was telling him that the boy no longer existed, that he _never_ existed. Clark had seen many strange things living in Smallville, with the krypto-freaks and the Wall of Weird; he was the cause of many strange phenomena himself, but this was unbelievable. It wasn't even fair. "You lied—"

"I never lied," Bruce corrected, glancing at him sidelong as they made their way through traffic. "I didn't know. My memory loss was real. I couldn't remember anything—"

"Until the shooting."

"Exactly."

"And that man who came to pick you up—"

"My butler, Alfred."

"Your butler. You have a butler."

"Yes."

"Could this _be_ any more surreal?" Clark breathed out slowly. His classmates were all settled in at the hotel, and would eat dinner out at a local restaurant as a group while he was with this stranger on the highway, fighting through traffic. The sun was going down, and not for the first time Clark wondered what had possessed him to agree to accompany this… _guy_ …to his house, for dinner, except that Clark was confident that he could protect himself with his abilities, if the need arose, and… _Bruce_ …had been so persuasive. He looked different— _older_ —but he was still just as adept at getting his own way.

Besides, Clark wasn't sure he believed this whole story and there was only one way to find out the truth.

"You could have said something before you left," Clark accused. "We thought we'd never see you again. My mom was so upset—"

"And you?"

"I missed you! You were like my little brother—but you're not anymore, are you?"

Bruce's tone was dry. "Definitely not."

They had reached the outskirts of the city, and were proceeding up a large, tree-lined hill that looked out over Gotham. The tension in the car was thick, and on Clark's part, bitter. Bruce claimed he hadn't lied to them but there was a length of time when he had known the truth and chose not to say anything. Nothing could mitigate the fact that he had left them thinking he was a _boy_ who had found his _home,_ and who was summarily excised from their lives.

"I'm sorry, Clark," Bruce said, voice serious. "I didn't mean to hurt you. My life is complicated, beyond complicated. I thought it best not to pull you into it unnecessarily."

Clark blinked. "So why now? What's changed?"

Bruce was quiet for a moment, navigating the car through an elaborate iron gate that opened electronically and down an equally impressive driveway. He pulled up in front of a house the size of a castle and killed the ignition, turning in his seat.

"I missed you," he said. "And I don't miss anyone still living."

"Yeah, well, we were pretty close there for a while," Clark mumbled, shifting in his seat, remembering that this… _person_ …had slept in his room, in his bed, had seen him naked, for chrissakes. "Is this your house?"

"This is my house."

Clark opened the car door and stepped out. "It's…big."

Bruce was smiling at him, from the other side of the car. "It is, indeed. Let's go in. Alfred is expecting us."

The front doors swung open when they were still walking up the steps, ten feet away from the entranceway. It was all very dramatic, and reminded Clark of a scene from a Disney movie that he had watched…at some point…in his childhood. Alfred was standing there, easily recognized from his trip to Smallville to pick up Bruce—back when Bruce had needed to be picked up. He took their things, saying, "Welcome home, Master Bruce. Mister Kent, welcome."

 _Mister Kent?_

"Uh, hi, Mister Pennyworth. Nice to see you again," Clark said, falling back on his manners, hoping they would be enough to get him through this ordeal.

"Alfred will do, sir. I did want to apologize for the subterfuge involved in our earlier meeting," Alfred said, leading him into the house by the arm. "Master Bruce assured me that it was a necessary evil, given his situation. I regretted every moment, and am glad to have the opportunity to make it up to you. Master Bruce tells me you are quite fond of beef stew and apple pie…?"

"Uh, yes…"

"Very good. The menu should be to your liking, then."

Alfred left him at that point…with Bruce.

"Can I show you around? Alfred will call us when dinner is ready."

They toured the first floor of the house. Bruce was an engaging host, and Clark could see in him some of the same sensibilities that Lex exhibited, whenever Lex had the opportunity to introduce Clark to something he had never experienced and that was unique to a billionaire's world. Then, too, there was much of the younger Bruce in the older version's mannerisms, the way he smiled, the way he tilted his head when he was making a point, the arch of an eyebrow when he was being facetious. Clark found it reassuring—to think that the young boy he had befriended wasn't gone entirely, he had just changed, morphed into—Clark studied Bruce's profile— _this._

It was disconcerting, but wasn't exactly…unpleasant.

When Alfred called them for dinner, Clark was feeling almost comfortable with the new dynamic between him and the adult version of his young friend. After all, he was an _alien._ What was a little accelerated aging as compared to something as weird as _that?_

It was the moment that Clark realized he was actually _happy_ Bruce had decided to tell him the truth. It wasn't so far-fetched to think they could be friends again.

"I'm glad you invited me here," Clark said when there came a lapse in Bruce's wild descriptions of some of the seedier sections of Gotham City. "At least now we can stay in touch—"

Bruce was looking at him quizzically.

"What?"

"Nothing. Are you finished? There's something I want to show you."

Clark eyed the half-eaten apple pie regretfully.

"Come on, Clark," Bruce said with mock frustration. "The pie will still be there when you get back."

Clark grinned, unrepentant. "In that case—"

He followed Bruce from the dining room to a den off the main hallway, and over to a grandfather clock standing against the wall. To Clark's surprise, Bruce did something to it and it slid aside, revealing stairs that led down and into darkness. _Is this the moment when things are going to get weird?_ Clark wondered.

"You're not the only one with secrets, Clark. I feel…bad, for obtaining so many of yours through false pretenses, even though it wasn't my intention to do so. I wanted to give you something of me in return." Bruce preceded him into the inky blackness. "Are you ready?"

Clark wasn't sure if he was ready or not, but he followed Bruce down the stairs anyway.

"You're The Batman," Clark said, looking around the hollowed out cave in wonder, spotting the black costumes hanging in a row in a lighted case. The kid who had lived in his house for months was…The Batman of Gotham City. _How cool was that?_

"Yes."

Clark moved towards the sweet-looking motorcycle parked by the kick-ass black car.

"I wouldn't touch anything," Bruce called out, his voice echoing oddly. Clark pulled his hand back and looked over to where Bruce was grinning sheepishly. "My equipment does some…crazy things. Come over here. I want to show you something."

Clark followed Bruce to an arrangement of computer screens, set up in the center of the cave. He pressed a button. "Look here," he said. "These are the people who kidnapped me." Another button, a chemical compound described on a screen. "This is what they used to regress my age."

Clark pointed at the displayed photo of a blonde woman. "She died in the tornado. I tried to save her but—"

"You can't save everyone, Clark, no matter how many special abilities you develop." Bruce nodded towards the screen. "The man is in jail, where he belongs."

"But how—what—"

"I'll tell you everything you want to know," Bruce said. "Just not tonight. It's late, and I have to get you back to the hotel or we'll both get in trouble. And I still have something to explain." Bruce took him by the arm and led him along the edge of a cliff, and around the back of a waterfall, until they emerged outside, behind the house, in an English garden that would have sent his mom into a rhapsody.

They settled at opposite ends of a white stone bench, overlooking a small pond.

"I want you to be clear about my intentions," Bruce said, after a pause. "I wasn't joking—"

He stopped. Sighed. "This is harder than I expected it to be. Who would have thought it would be so hard to talk to _you,_ the one who gave new meaning to the word _burping?"_

"Oh, God," Clark groaned, going red. "You remember that?"

Bruce nodded, smirking now. "Of course." Then serious. "I remember—you outside of the car, pulling me out of the window in the middle of a tornado. We were flying, Clark. _Flying._ You saved my life that day, then you stayed with me in the hospital, made sure there was someone at my bedside who cared, when I woke up not knowing my own name. And when they couldn't figure out what to do with me, you convinced your parents to bring me home."

"It didn't take much convincing," Clark mumbled, embarrassed. "You were the cutest nine-year-old in the world, and you looked so much like me. All my mom wanted to do was keep you for good."

"Still, Clark, I wouldn't be here now but for you. And that was only the beginning."

"I thought you needed me." Clark waved a hand, at the house, the grounds. "Obviously—"

"I needed you then. I still need you."

Clark shook his head. "I don't— _how old are you now, anyway?"_

"Twenty-four."

Seven years. The same age as Lex. The same number of years that had separated them when Bruce was nine and Clark was sixteen. How ironic.

"This is so strange."

"I know, but I don't want to lie to you. For months I tried to forget about Smallville, and the harder I tried, the crazier I got." Bruce smiled, small and self-deprecating. "Finally, Alfred put his foot down, saying he was tired of me moping around the house. I know you feel you don't know me now, but I'm the same person that I was—just a little older."

"You're a completely different person," Clark countered. "You even talk different."

Bruce shrugged. "I _am_ an adult now."

"I don't even know you like this."

"You can get to know me, if that's what you want."

"Sure, of course," Clark said, looking out over the grounds. "But what do _you_ want from _me?"_

"Right now I'll settle for your friendship," Bruce said, getting to his feet. "But I want you to understand that one day, we will be so much more."

Clark stood up, followed Bruce to where he had stopped under a willow tree. He thought of Lana, Lex, of all the relationships in his life that mattered to him. He simply couldn't envision how Bruce intended to replace any of that, why he was so sure there would ever be anything more than friendship between them. It was eerie—Bruce's strange certitude about their relationship. Clark wasn't sure he was comfortable with it.

"I don't—"

"I know." Bruce moved closer, reached out and cupped his face. His eyes were dark with nighttime shadows, and Clark found he couldn't look away. "You hardly know me. You're in high school and I don't fit into your world. You have your whole life in front of you, experiences that won't include me, but I want you to remember—"

Bruce ducked his head, captured Clark's lips. Kissed him like he'd never been kissed in his entire life. With a gasp of surprise, Clark opened his mouth, and the kiss deepened and went on and on for an unimagined length of time. When Bruce pulled back, Clark was stunned, breathing hard, and was more than a little regretful.

"I'm sorry," Bruce said, voice soft and low. They were still standing close. Bruce had a hand on one of his shoulders, at the curve of his neck. A thumb moved lightly over skin. "I won't do that again. I promise. I'll wait…"

Bruce leaned in, rested his forehead against Clark's, whispering, "How long will I have to wait, Clark? I'll wait for you forever. _Don't make me wait forever…"_


	4. Chapter 4

IV.

"There were tranquilizers in his system, Mr. Kent. The vehicle the mother was driving is unregistered, fake plates, VIN removed. Classic signs of a person on the run—"

"Running from what?" Jonathan Kent interjected.

"Good question. Without any identification on the woman, your guess is as good as any." The police officer sucked his teeth. "All we can do is run the boy's description through the national databases—unless he regains his memory and tells us something. Anyway, it's mighty nice of you to take the boy in while we investigate…"

Clark tuned the conversation out, and, instead, put an arm around Bruce's shoulders and squeezed. "Are you ready to go home?"

Bruce was silent, staring out of the hospital room window, lost in his own thoughts, but Clark was patient, and eventually, the boy looked up at Clark and nodded.

Three days had passed since Bruce had awakened from his coma, and Clark was glad to see he was relatively fit and recovering steadily. The ten days the dark-haired boy had been unconscious had been some of the worst days of Clark's life. He had felt like such a failure—to have incredible speed and strength and yet be unable to prevent the death of a mother and the injury to the son. Then he had felt positively helpless when there was nothing he could do to get the boy to open his eyes except hold his hand and pray.

But Bruce was awake now, and safe, and if Clark had anything to say about it, nothing would hurt him ever again.

Clark turned from the window, Bruce tucked close to his side like a shadow, and followed his dad out of the hospital room and home.

+

The boy was _taciturn,_ Clark decided, trying out one of the words from the vocabulary list from his English class. The list was supposed to help prepare him for the college entrance exam he would have to take next year, but besides that fact, the word fit his young companion exactly. Bruce was quiet, except when spoken to, and then he was unfailingly polite and complete in his response. He was…entirely too serious for his age, which Clark put at eight, maybe nine years. Any normal third grader would be bouncing with excess energy, but all Bruce did was study the countryside as they traveled the road outside of Smallville, and the yellow farmhouse as they pulled into the driveway.

 _It must be the trauma,_ Clark decided. _It must all seem so strange to him, not knowing where he came from or where he's going._ Clark knew exactly how that felt, and he resolved to do everything he could to make Bruce feel at home.

He needn't have worried. His mom was in full mom-mode when they entered the house. There was lunch, and cookies, and Clark's room had been regressed about ten years, back to his childhood obsession with the Gray Ghost. His old sheet set and bedspread had been rescued out of storage and his bed remade. His mom had even taken the time to buy Bruce a whole new wardrobe—which prompted his dad to pull her aside and admonish that the boy would only be with them for a short while and she should be careful not to get too attached.

"This is your room," Bruce stated once they were alone again.

Clark sat down next to him on the bed. "Yep. But it's yours now."

"Where will you sleep?"

"On the sofa in the living room for now. You know they'll be looking for your family, and I'm sure your memory will come back, but until then, I want you to be comfortable here. To think of this as home."

Bruce nodded. "You're really cool."

Clark grinned. "I try."

"And you can fly, and you're strong, just like a super hero. That's really cool, too."

"Uh—what? I'm—" Clark cleared his throat. "You know, I can't really fly."

Bruce's gaze was intense. "But I saw you."

"That was just your imagination, Bruce."

Dark eyebrows drew together and a pale face set itself in stubborn lines. "I saw you."

It was…hard, to lie when such clear blue eyes were studying him so expectantly. Clark lied to everyone, all the time. Had been doing it since he was a kid and found out that he couldn't be hurt, and was stronger than anyone, and so much faster, too. Didn't even think about it anymore, really. But he had never looked into the eyes of a child who clearly…needed him, to believe in him, and lied. He was only sixteen—somehow, he didn't think this was fair.

"It was the tornado," Clark said, looking away. "It made things seem strange…"

"Why— _why are you lying?"_ The boy's bottom lip started to tremble, his eyes filled with tears.

 _He couldn't do this._

Clark pulled Bruce into a hug. "I'm sorry. Hey, don't cry—don't—"

But it was too late. Bruce was crying, sobs that he tried to bury in Clark's t-shirt, and Clark felt like the biggest jerk on the face of the planet. This wasn't what Bruce needed—to feel deceived, uncertain, unsafe, because the person he needed to trust was a liar. The boy had been bereft of everything—his mother, his memory, his entire life. He needed to feel safe, and loved…

"Come on," Clark said, getting to his feet and pulling Bruce with him, out of the room and down the stairs. "We'll be back in a few, Mom," he yelled as they exited the house. He led Bruce around back of the barn and out into the middle of the open field. His dad would kill him if he saw—but Clark didn't care.

Bruce was quiet, watchful. His tears had stopped but they had made a wreck of his pale complexion. "Are you ready?" Clark asked. When Bruce nodded, Clark picked him up, braced himself…and jumped.

To his credit, Bruce didn't scream. His eyes just opened wide, and he turned his head to get a good look at the sky on both sides, squirming, trying to look down to see how high up they were. It was the smile that lit his face as he took it all in that tugged at Clark's heart and convinced him he had made the right decision.

Clark landed carefully in an open field on the outskirts of the Kent acreage. He set Bruce down and collapsed on the ground, crossing his legs and finding a stalk to chew. Bruce stared down at him for a moment and then joined him. He sat close and crossed his legs, too, and grabbed a stalk of his own.

"You _can_ fly."

"Not exactly. I can jump really high, and I can float sometimes. I jump and float, but it's not exactly flying."

"It's still cool."

Clark smiled. "Definitely."

"Why did you lie? Why did you say you _couldn't_ when you _could?"_

"I'm sorry about that," Clark sighed. "But some people would try to hurt me if they knew I could do special things. They might try to take me away from my family. That's why it's really, really important that you don't tell anyone about this, and that you understand why I don't show off my abilities to anyone."

"I won't tell anyone," Bruce said, solemnly. "I promise."

Clark ruffled his hair. "Good. You're the only one who knows my secret, except Mom and Dad. So now you're family."

"Family," Bruce repeated, and he sounded…satisfied, happy. Then he scrambled to his feet, pulling Clark with him. "Can we do it again? Can you do anything else? Do you think _I_ could—"

"Whoa!" Clark said, laughing. "I can't just go jumping around. Someone might see us—"

"Don't worry," Bruce said, confidently. "No one will take you away from your family. I won't let them."

"I know, but we still have to be careful. We need to get back to the house, so how about we try this instead." Clark placed a hand around the boy's waist and encouraged him to do the same. "Hold on." He lifted Bruce a bit and took off running. The sound of Bruce's laughter on the wind buried itself in his heart.


	5. Chapter 5

V.

Five days after Clark had returned from his class trip to Gotham City, Bruce visited the farm. He had phoned first, spoken to Clark's dad earlier in the week to make arrangements, instigating a family meeting to consider the shocking news of a nine-year-old turned adult overnight. Good thing Clark's parents were used to dealing with the unusual. After all, they were raising an alien from outer space—and doing a darn fine job of it, if Clark did say so himself. A simple matter of age regression was hardly enough to make the Kents blink, and if it wasn't for all of the other stuff—the fact that Bruce was Bruce _Wayne,_ of Gotham City, and the Batman to boot—everything would have fallen into place again.

Even with the complications, Clark had to admit, he was glad to see how the news made his mom glow with happiness. It was clear from her reaction that her love for the child she had welcomed into her home hadn't changed one bit, and her unreserved response made Clark feel rather embarrassed for many of the things he had said to Bruce during their time together in Gotham, his lukewarm acceptance of their changed circumstances. What did it matter if Bruce was now older than him? He was still the same person…

An expensive black sports car turned into the driveway. Clark stopped work with the buzz saw, shut down the machine and straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans. His mom was out of the house in moments and across the driveway to pull Bruce into a hug as he exited his vehicle. Clark watched their reunion from a distance, refusing to expand his hearing to listen to what Bruce was whispering in her ear. It was enough to see her pull back with a tremulous smile and tears in her eyes; it was enough to watch her kiss Bruce on the cheek before going back into the house.

Then, Bruce turned in his direction, with the sun overhead and the whole of Kansas as merely a backdrop to his rather extraordinary appearance, and Clark suddenly realized he might never get over the fact that Bruce was now so _completely_ different. The way he walked past his mom's sunflowers, smoothly stalking in his direction—different. His impeccable bearing; his serious demeanor—the confident way a black eyebrow went up when he reached spitting distance and his eyes appraised him…all different. It made Clark nervous, self-conscious. Brought to mind the kiss, the heat of their embrace and the inexplicable words that had accompanied those actions. Things that fell outside of Clark's experience, things he didn't want to think about—

Bruce was the same person, and he was a completely different person. And Clark had never been so confused in his entire life.

"Hope I'm not interrupting."

It was easy to smile when Bruce was so obviously anxious. "Of course not. We were expecting you."

Clark stepped closer, and after an awkward moment, he pulled Bruce in for a hug. He felt Bruce tense and then relax with an exhalation of breath.

"I wasn't sure—"

"Don't be stupid," Clark interrupted, moving from the shadows by the entrance to the barn out into the sunlight and over to the wooden fence that surrounded the smaller paddock. He leaned against it. "You know you're always welcome here."

"That's what your mom said." Bruce followed him, took up a position by his side.

"She's your mom, too, Bruce."

Clark could tell just from the neutral look on Bruce's face that he was indulgent of the sentiment but didn't really believe.

"You know, Mom has a big heart," Clark said. "She fell for you the first time she sang you to sleep. That's not something that changes just because you…" a sidelong glance, "grew up. You're stuck with her, so don't try to change the way she feels."

A crooked smile. "I wouldn't think of it."

"Good." Clark straightened. "How long can you stay?"

"Not long. Just through dinner."

"Dinner won't be ready for at least an hour."

The gleam in Bruce's eyes was amused, expectant. "Did you have something in mind to pass the time?"

"Well…I figured now that you're so tall, I won't feel so bad about kicking your ass in basketball."

Bruce was already rolling up his sleeves as Clark jogged over to the barn to retrieve the ball. "Right. There's something you should know, Clark."

Was there some other crazy fact about Bruce that needed to be revealed? "What?" Clark responded warily.

Bruce walked over to him and took the ball. "I don't lose. Ever."

Clark let out the breath he had been holding and scoffed. "Get over yourself! Don't think I'm going to let you win just to stroke your ego—"

They could only play a couple of games, but by the time they had to head into the house to clean up for dinner, Clark felt they had reached a place of equilibrium: the familiar banter, the laughter, the way they seemed to fit together as friends, falling into the easy dynamic of a familial relationship restored. It was a relief to find that Bruce's favorite things were still his favorite, and his dry humor and sharp wit were the same, except more fully developed, more refined. After dinner, there was more serious conversation in the living room, explanations and elaborations that allayed most of the Kents fears about Bruce's life as an adult. Before it got too late, he took his leave, explaining that Gotham City needed him, and he couldn't in good conscience spend any more time away. They all nodded, Clark's father, in particular, who understood the press of responsibility and obligation, and respected the need to take care of those things even at the expense of desire and comfort and convenience.

And his mother—Clark could see it in her eyes: though she missed the child, she was very much impressed with the man Bruce had become.

The visit concluded, Clark walked Bruce to his car. The shadows were long with a bright moon overhead, and Bruce seemed to melt right into them as they said their goodbyes.

"I guess this is it."

Clark nodded, hands in the pockets of his jeans. "I guess so. I'm glad you came. I tried to explain it all when I got back from Gotham but," he shrugged, "it's sort of easier to understand when they can see the change for themselves."

Bruce paused. He had one hand in his pocket and the other lightly touching the hood of his car. "I know things are different, but I hope not everything has changed."

"Some things will never change, brat. I'm still your big brother, even though you went and stole a few years on me."

"Good. I—" Bruce nodded. "Good."

"You were worried," Clark said, grinning. "Don't be. Just takes a little getting used to."

"I want you to do something for me," Bruce said, face falling serious. He stepped closer, placing a hand on Clark's arm. "I want you to stay away from Lex Luthor."

Clark frowned. "He's my friend—"

"He's dangerous—"

"Are you going to be doing this now?" Clark huffed. "Trying to tell me what to do? I don't need another dad—"

Bruce let Clark go, ran a hand through his hair and scowled. "I'm not trying to tell you what to do, Clark. You don't understand—it kills me to have to leave you here, by yourself. With no _protection._ I just want you to be safe. Lex Luthor—"

"Is my friend."

Bruce's face was set in the same stubborn lines that Clark knew so well from his time with Bruce the younger, but Clark could be stubborn, too. Mulishly so, his parents liked to say.

"Promise me you'll never tell him your secrets," Bruce finally capitulated with a sigh, ending their glaring stalemate.

"You sound like Dad."

"Promise me, Clark, or I'll take care of Luthor myself—"

"Fine," Clark said, turning away. "I don't go around telling people my secret anyway."

Silence pooled between them. Clark could feel Bruce staring at his back, but he refused to turn. Finally, he heard Bruce pull his keys out and open the car door. That turned Clark around in a hurry.

"I'm only a phone call away, if you need me."

"Wait."

Bruce paused, hand on the door, poised to get in.

"When—Can you come back for Thanksgiving? Mom would like that."

"And you—?"

"I'm asking."

"I'll make arrangements. Sometimes—a lot of the time—my work interferes with my plans, but I'll try to make it."

Clark nodded, ducked his head, let his hair fall into his eyes. "Maybe—I can come visit you in Gotham, if you can't get away…"

A pause. "No, Clark."

He looked up quickly, caught Bruce's eyes. "Why not?" He couldn't keep the consternation from his tone.

Bruce reached out, touched his face. "If I had you to myself, Clark, I wouldn't know how to let you go."


End file.
